Lindsay Lohan Goes To Jail, and Is Shocked By It.

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LeBron James and The Cleveland Massacre

The original reads:  When I look at myself, I'm not representing LeBron now.  I'm representing the league, the city of Akron, the city of Cleveland. . . I'm not going to disappoint anybody."

Now that LeBron James is in Miami, the throngs of retards who followed this long debacle can finally change their dirty drawers and wipe the drool from their mouths.  Ridiculous, if you ask me.  The whole God damn thing, as hoping for LeBron is much like praying for your guardian angel just as you're about to be swallowed whole by quick sand: even if he does show up, you're still fucked, as theres nothing he can possibly do.

Next years champs are already envisioning their gaudy championship rings, and guess what?  They won one last year.  To assume the mere addition of a young kid dumb vain enough to get 'Chosen 1' tattooed on his back would be enough to beat out a hardened, veteran team with arguably one of the greatest players in the game, and arguably one of the greatest coaches in the game, is not only irresponsible, but downright retarded.

Lakers three-peat.

Have a nice day King James.

But I digress:

Now that this whole thing is done with, it leaves the idea of fantasy wide open.  This is how it would have gone, had I done it, and not King James:

Weeks of frantic calling between Dan Gilbert, owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, and LeBron James have led to this:  mass homicide. . .

News of LeBron shopping around made Dan rather nervous, and after each visit with a different team, Dan would call LeBron like a jealous girlfriend, demanding just how many times he was copulated, and by whom.  (Was it that bastard Isiah Thomas?  Was it?)  Naturally like any jealous girlfriend, the more LeBron went out, the more suspicious Dan became, and with the passage of time, Dan's franticness only swelled inside him, making him feel much like a balloon.  By the time the balloon was ready to pop, LeBron had just about made up his mind as to whom he wanted to go steady with.

Frantically, Dan Gilbert sought the help of Frank Jackson, mayor of Cleveland. . . 

While LeBron was getting stroked by the New York Knicks, Dan was making the call to Frank Jackson:

"He's cheating on me dammit!"  Dan said.  "Dammit it all to hell!"  He seemed as if he was sobbing, if not due to anger than to total sorrow.  "He's gonna leave me. . . The bastard is gonna leave us!  The city of Cleveland, all of us, every last one!"

"Calm yourself, Dan."  The Mayor replied.

"This is bad for everybody!  Even for you Mayor Jackson, even for you!  The economy will go down the shitter!  Tourism will drop from five thousand visits a year down to only two, or by God, only one thousand. . . They'll hang you my friend!"  Dan was yelling into the phone, due to a certain frenzy only jealous girlfriends can have when their man is just about to scoot out on em'.  "You'll forever be known as the mayor who let LeBron get away!  Do you really want that Jackson?!  Do yah?"  Jackson didn't say anything, so he continued.  "Well if that's what you want, then you can just sit back and watch your city turn to shit."

"Dan. . . -to shit-. . . Dan . . . -to shit mayor-. . . I'm with yah, but what is it that you propose?"

Somewhere over the country in a private jet LeBron James listens to Kanye West, because he's fucking cool, he's the 'Chosen One.'  He texts and flirts with teams.  Below, Mayor Jackson and Dan Gilbert organize a plan.  Miles off, a dead body floats peacefully down the Cuyahoga River, out of downtown Cleveland and out to sea.  The Post-LeBron Era's first casualty. . . Days drift on by, as the city of Cleveland goes about its daily business.  LeBron is the topic in every bar, and broodingly the entire drinking class of Cleveland sips and waits.  LeBron meets with more teams.  The media runs with it, hook line and sinker.  Dan Gilbert chews a bloody finger.  Mayor Jackson makes calls and throws about some political weight.

As the media announces that LeBron James is done courting and has final decided his next team, all of Cleveland assembles for a rally held by Dan Gilbert and Mayor Frank Jackson.  Everything is going according to plan.  LeBron meets with t.v. people to make his announcement.  Gilbert smiles, sitting next to Mayor Jackson at the podium.  The square is full of people. Jackson speaks:

"Beautiful people of Cleveland. . . As you probably know, King LeBron James' contract ran out with the Cleveland Cavaliers, and lately he's been shopping himself around."  Boos rose up from around the podium, producing a smile on Frank's face.  His arms stretch out like a marrionette.  

The people of Cleveland stand and listen.  LeBron sits down, in Los Angeles, preparing for his announcement.  Dan Gilbert wipes sweat from his brow.  Jackson in Cleveland continues:

"Now, now, settle down settle down.  We all know that LeBron is our hometown hero, our hometown boy.  Selflessly he took on the job of helping this great city of ours, and has done much for us.  Don't you think for a second now that, he's about to skip out on us now. . . Not after all we've been through together. . ."

The camera comes to life, LeBron begins to make his announcement.  An interviewer begins:

"So you ready LeBron?"

"Sure am."  LeBron replies.

While Jackson continues to speak to the people of Cleveland.

"But just in case he does have some inklings of going elsewhere. . . Mr. Gilbert and I have decided to give him a little incentive to stay here in Cleveland. . ."

And the people listen.  And the camera in Cali whirls away:

"Its been a real nail biter, LeBron, you get much sleep?"

"Not enough."  LeBron laughs.

LeBron laughs and over in Cleveland Jackson continues:

"We've decided that we'll. . .reaching into his pocket. . . kill one Clevelander. . . pulling out a gun. . . at a time until he BAM, one dead. . comes BAM back BAM to us. BAM BAM."

Each explosion of sulphur and blue flame equaling death, one loud blast at a time.  And the interviewer in Los Angeles:

"So LeBron, BAM, where you BAM, BAM, headed BAM next year?"

"I've dec-BAM-ided to BAM take my talents BAM to South BAM Beach Florida, BAM to play BAM for the BAM Miami BAM Heat."  Lebron says, plainly.

 And the next day, when the sun peaked up out over the tops of the buildings in Cleveland, Jackson was still shooting away, his feet ankle deep in a sea of spent casings.

"Until he BAM comes BAM back BAM to US!  BAM BAM."  He fires and fires and keeps firing when the clip is empty.  The devoted Clevelanders are still there, either too devasted to live without LeBron or too stupid to get up and get out of there.  They wait for Jackson to reload.  Dan Gilbert nods on and off.  LeBron pulls out his cell phone and makes a phone call:

It rings.  Jackson reloads his gun, his cell phone rings.

"Hello?"  LeBron says.

"Hello?"  Jackson says.

"Its LeBron, I'm sure you've. . ."

"Oh LeBron!"  Jackson laughs and puts the phone down for a second.  "Its ok everybody!  Its LeBron, prolly calling to come back!"  He puts the phone back to his mouth.  "Prolly wantin' to come back huh LeBron?  You heard about the people we been killing down here for you, huh, LeBron?  I know the last thing you would want is to hurt the people of Cleveland.  I know I know.  The King is back!  He's back!"

"Uh, no.  I'm going to Miami."

"Miami!  What?!"  He couldn't believe it.  "But were killing Clevelanders out here.  Don't you know?"

"Don't you know?"  LeBron askes.

"What?  What?"

"I don't give a fuck about Cleveland."

And then hangs up the phone.

This whole LeBron James hub-bub was just a little too much.  For one, Cleveland shouldn't have baptized LeBron in their waters and made him a homegrown boy so to speak.  They shouldn't have given him the title of not only King, but 'Our Lord and Savior,' for not even LeBron can save you Cleveland. . .  Never give an athelete such adoration: its sure to go to their head.  Especially if they're young.

And now that he's gone, why, my word, may I be the first to say 'welcome back to obscurity' Cleveland.

But its not really all your fault.

LeBron shouldn't have taken up the title himself.  But I guess he really thought he could carry you guys through the muck and give you something to be proud of.  LeBron shouldn't have dragged this whole thing out either, everybody already knows everything about every other team, certainly LeBron did, so why did he have to have all of these damn meetings?

What can yah give me suckkas?

LeBron isn't really all that surprisng.  The guys been bred to play basketball, much like a thorough bred horse (if he breaks a leg we just may have to put him out of his misery) so it isn't really that surprising when he does the stuff that he does.  I mean LeBron had a fucking beard in the fourth grade for Christ's sake.

If anything, he's done nothing but destroy his name, destroy his relationship with an entire city (thats fuckin hard to do,) and give himself that 'prima donna' prefix that no basketball player really ever wants. . .

But LeBron doesn't seem to mind.

And it is for that reason alone that iR declares LeBron James, shamelessly retarded.

After LeBron left Cleveland, Dan Gilbert was so butt hurt he put out this letter to all of Cleveland.

LeBron's pre game ritual includes tossing crushed chalk up into the air. . . because he's the Chosen One and everything he does is fucking cool... yah hear me?

LeBron actually has a film made about his life called More Than a Game.

LeBron will be on the cover of Backstabbing Liar Monthly next month.

LeBron is only 25. . . only 25.

6 ft 8 inches, 250 pounds.  I told you, he's a thorougho bred.

Signed a 90 million dollar shoe contract with Nike before he even debuted professionally.

LeBron was an All State wide receiver in high school.  Shit that explains a lot.

THE LEBRON JAMES OFFENSE:

Drive the lane, be sure to carry the ball.

Run over opposing players.  Don't worry about the foul, the Chosen One never fouls anyone.

love,

iR

Carlos Zambrano: Just Another Whiney Pitcher

Baseball use to be a game of true heroes: of regular Joes who had jobs on the side and were generally well respected by everybody.  They didn't have to worry about wandering the streets in fear of being recognized and mauled for autographs or photos or anything like that, or even worse, the wrath of some die hard fan of an opposing team just set on sticking it to em good.  They were average in nearly every way:  some were alcoholics, smokers (tending to smelly cigars during batting practice right before a game - heavy lumber on one shoulder and a heavy cigar like a wet slug sticking out of the corner of the mouth), big eaters and light sleepers (all the women you see.)  Just a couple of brutish stoned faced American boys, playing a pure American game on fields so nice, by God: it must be American.

Simple everyday men, who despite being so mortal, so God-damned plain, managed to do great and amazing things, and in doing so managed to rouse in fellow man the capabilities of flesh, in a game that made them legends.

But its not like that anymore.

There are no more legends to be had, not in the modern game.  None of the type that Kevin Costner likes to jerk himself off with -- there aint no Field of Dreams with a tall corn fringe on the edge of a ball field through which baseball greats - like actors through a curtain - appear to play the game of ball. No, not anymore.  Just a dusty diamond with a spotty field full of ragweed, lined by a rusty fence sure to give anyone who touches it a case of 'the lock jaw,' and all the players running around the field just so happen to be nincompoops.

And cheats. . .

And crybabies. . .

Like this guy: Carlos Zambrano.

Carlos (center) doing what he does best: bitchin'.

Like so many Chicago Cub pitchers, perhaps due to the teams historic inability to produce a team capable enough to win the World Series, Carlos Zambrano was touted as the next big thing for the organization when he first appeared: that rocket of an arm that would, by strength alone, pull the rotten team up out of a dreary dream state, almost as if they were drowned, and pick them up, dripping like drowned rats to plop them peacefully on a much drier promised land:  The World Series.

Yet:  this never really happened, and has yet to happen. . . and now big old Carlos Zambrano, "Big Z," is thinkin' about retiring.

Why did it never happen?

Because he's no hero, like ball players of old, he's just a crybaby, look:

After 1st baseman Derek Lee missed a sharp grounder for a lead off double, Zambrano laid into Lee, feeling as if he should have gotten it.

This latest outburst, which only happened a couple of weeks ago, gave Carlos Zambrano and indefinite suspension from the team, and when he does come back, he'll be saddle bagged with relief pitching duty. . . But all of this is no new thing to Zambrano, he's had a history of flying off the handle.  He's done it all, from tossing a ball into left field after he received an unjust call, to slapping his teammates, destroying bats, talking shit about his own fans, and uplifting Gatorade dispensers.  He's even gone so far as to use every umpire's favorite motion, that simple movement that displays not only absolute power but bitter disgust: that -YOU'RE OUTTA HERE- motion all umpires use when they throw out a player.  After disagreeing with an umpire and getting throw out of the game, Zambrano felt it fit to show everyone just how much power, and bitter disgust he had too, because he then proceeded to use that same motion: YOU'RE OUTTA HERE and attempted to throw out the umpire, and stared at him with so much authority you would think the roles were reversed.

Needless to say, he didn't succeed.

He didn't succeed and has given his organization a whole lot to think about.  His retardation is no doubt shameful, and bad for the city and the team, yet management faces a calamity: the damn bastard still has 2 years left on his contract, and with a no-trade clause to boot.  Its a real pickle'n'that well, you see, that means they can't get rid of the ole' lard ass, not'n'less they feel like waiting for his contract to run out.  And you can damn well guarantee that when the cows do come home, he'll ride the pine and pitch a few innings of baseball, and still get paid the big buck, still get paid as much as any heavy handed hide hurler.  This will make him, no doubt, the highest paid reliever in the game, and that my friends, is so retarded I dare not venture to think about it.

Despite Zambrano's bitchiness, it is not a unique quality for the modern day Major League Baseball pitcher to posses, for once again, the heroes of the past have faded out into obscurity, sullied by the great shit stain that is modern baseball.  There have been many pitchers who have fallen under such a title, of 'utter overpaid douchebag' like:

John Rocker, who famously described New York City as a real shit hole that resembles 'Beirut,' and is home to 'AIDS infested queers,' jailbirds, women who produce many offspring at young ages, and worst of all the foreigners!  'The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners.  You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not hear anybody speaking English.  Asians and Koreans and Vietnamese and Indians and Russians and Spanish people and everything up there.  How the hell did they get in this country?"  Oh yeah, and he's done much in securing his image as a racist retard. . . These days he's trying to start a "Speak English" campaign, yelling racist remarks at other hotel patrons, or literally spitting on foreign products. . . oh and he's a cheater too, in 2007 his name was found on a client list that sold human growth hormones.

Odalis Perez, who when isn't giving up six runs a game and stinking up the place, often enjoys temper tantrums that are so stereotypical you would think he spent all his days watching kids pout.  He includes all the usual outbursts, short of torrents of tears, and loves most to stomp around the field and destroy things.

Kevin Brown, who's bitchiness can be chalked up as 'roid rage,' as the guy had more fuel pumping through his veins than a race car on race day.  This guy had an anger problem that was further compounded by a racing heart and testicles that were shriveling by the very second.  Oh and when he's not on the field, he's just as big of a loose handle, as in 2006 he allegedly pulled a gun on his neighbor after he accused him of dumping dead foliage in his yard.

Roger Clemens, who's such a great guy he cheats in the game of baseball and cheats in the game of love.  The ultimate Diva, during his career Roger complained about a whole lot of things, the most pathetic of which was the fact that he had to carry his own luggage through airports.  He's also criticised Fenway Park, calling it a 'subpar facility,' and has had more than his fair share of bouts of racism, including this little gem:  "None of the dry cleaners were open, they are all at the game, Japan and Korea."  (Clemens on the World Baseball Classic.)  To top it all off when his career was waining Roger announced retirement, then retracted it, then announced retirement, then retracted it, only to finally retire and have everyone call him a little whiney-ass-diva.

And then there's always Wild Thing:

But he wasn't much of a baby as he was just a bad ass.

Oh man, God know's its really tough getting paid buttloads of money to throw a baseball.

Oh man, and some people will say, well you know, money doesn't by you happiness.

Oh man, and I'll respond by saying, well you know, surely lots of money and a job that is basically a game should bring you hapiness, and if you can't even do that, you just suck at life.

Seriously Big Z, I'd like to live you life just one day.  Put up a horrible pitching performance in front of a crowd that isn't use to winning anyway, and then throw a big old temper tantrum (most 35 year olds can't get away with this,) and then go home to your big old house, just so I can shit in your five thousand dollar diamond encrusted jacuzzi.

Oh and I would do it...

The retardation here is astounding its so vast.  If anything the whole baseball thing is just further proof that shit is getting worse, all the time.  How is it that these guys have to cheat, and still suck more than Babe Ruth, a man who'd walk up to the plate with a t-bone steak in his back pocket, and a head full of liquor? 

Because the game is evolving.

Yeah all you rich assholes like George Steinbrenner who basically OWN all of baseball have really turned a sport that once was wholesome and turned it into a giant ball of whiney bitch retardation.  You've spoiled players with money and now they've come to believe they're something special: and they haven't even done anything special yet. . . You're paying them to shit down the throats of every player who played the game legitimately.

And it is for these reasons, and the lack of remorse you show for your outbursts, that iR declares Carlos Zambrano, shamelessly retarded.

love,
iR

Because The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree: Jamie Lynn Spears

If you peel back the yellowed pages of history, you will see that sometimes human seed shouldn't scatter about like blown dandelions (make a wish now;) sometimes it shouldn't scatter about at all.

Look:

Mr. Barney O'Field Bridges hugs the damp earth of a foxhole as all the world shatters around him, scattering in explosions of sulphur (red-orange,) of dirt (brown,) and of human bone (white, dust.)  In homes along the horizon, riddled with bullet holes, some with bombed in roofs for the sun to peak in, the enemy reigns down Hell in tiny little metal cannisters. Furniture still occupies the impromptu bases of fire.  Dinner tables still house plates and forks set up for a meal that never comes, chairs still wait for expected guests that won't be visiting anytime soon, that is if at all. . . And calenders on the walls all flap the year: 1945.

And the whole damn world is burning.

Mr. Bridges and his squad has been directed to cut on through the occupied town; another mission vital to the destruction of the Nazi Menace.  Hitler's grip on Europe has been slowly peeled back since '41, one greedy finger at a time, and although the war is nearly almost over -he could feel it- he is still worried about dying.  So damn worried about dying in fact, that he gets himself shot.  Like a needle shot from a blow gun, a bullet skated the air, and some how he could see it, the muzzle flash, the bullet exiting, its path, heading, heading, heading right this way!, and entered his chest. . .

The rest Mr. Bridges doesn't like to talk about much -not that he really could anyway- thoughts of the war leave him so choked up he often wonders if he'll ever breathe again, and in in a way, looking at him, you can tell sometimes that he wishes he wouldn't.  When he's finally dried his eyes, he always picks up his story at the London hospital where he received care for his wounds.  After many weeks, his reverie there was broken by the joyous whisperings of an end to the war, and though his shoulder still burned with a hot coal the doctors seemed to have missed surely they missed it? and his head pounded, there was only one thing that cut through the pain finer than any concoction the modern medicine world had to offer: and that was Lillian Irene Portell.  She was a nurse there, and Barney just couldn't get enough of her.  After caring for him, she too, had developed a connection with him (as is common among wounded soldiers and the nurses who mother them,) and he felt she was a beautiful export of a bird he just had to have.

And when they were wed, he bought them a nice home in Mississippi with money from his G.I. Bill.  It was a nice little place, certainly a place to raise children, with a yard and a nice white fence lining the property. And like so many couples after the war, they proceeded to produce offspring.  Their work between the sheets would give them Sandra (1947,) Barry (1951,) and Lynne (1955.)

See the pages of history, crummy and yellow as they are?  Sometimes you've got to trace the retardation back to its source.  History stacked like rocks, one leading to the next, on to the next:

These offspring would migrate all over the country, heading off to wherever reason may take them, or fortune, or family, or simply fate.  In particular, Ms. Lynne Bridges would venture out to Louisiana, where on a hot day with an orange sun that floated in a blue river sky, she would meet for the very first time, a Mr. James "Jamie" Spears.  She found him charming, and enjoyed that he had a certain look to him; that of a total D-Bag.  This smooth talking douche of course, she would wed, and their wedding would be an extravagant affair that many of the people who had the luxury of attending would talk about for many years after; would be romantic enough to turn already bitter not-yet-wed fat chick into sobbing, guilty, eating machines; and most importantly, would be bright enough to put even the sun itself to shame.

With her maiden name shed, Lynne Spears' vagina would open like crevice of Hell and plague the world with three of the Devil's own Hell-spawn:

Bryan Spears

Britney Spears

and

Jamie Lynn Spears

Bryan would go on to live in obscurity, unknown to you until just now. (You're welcome.)  Aww shucks ma, 0 for 1.  Maybe the next one will give some pride to the Spears name? 

Britney of course would be an ex-Mouseketter with a mild singing career drowned head first in a sea of tabloids too retarded to even mention by name.  Nonetheless all corners of the world are still dripping wet from that printed nonsense, as nearly everyone already knows the whole story: a retarded husband, a couple of kids, a psychotic episode, and a battle lost to some electric clippers, oh and a divorce. . . Did I miss anything?

Maybe Jamie Lynn will be the good one?  Kids can be a roll of the dice after all, and some are privy to this, so they just spawn them a bunch of kids as the odds get better with more kids right?  If not this one, perhaps the next or the next?  We're eight mouths strong as it is dear!  Any more mouths and we'll starve!

Maybe?  A good start with a movie role. . . some time spent on Nickelodeon

Stacked like rocks, one leading to the next:

Maybe?

And as such, the failures of the first rock lead into the failures of the second, and the third, and so on and so forth. . . Until finally you reach the top, the whole hill of beans ending up with Jamie Lynn Spears:

How bout not at fucking all?  At the young age of sixteen, seemingly upset that her sister would have more attention that her, Jamie Lynn Spears gets herself pregnant, the father being a young man (Casey Aldridge) three years older than her. . .   And with that bun in the oven she effectively destroys all ties with her and Nickelodeon, and becomes a practical spokesperson for teen pregnancies. . .

Stuffed somewhere underneath her bed in her childhood room, her worn diary still lays, its secrets concealed behind a tiny locket:

 August 27th, 2007

Dear Diary,

Now that summer is ending, I worry about being able to spend more time with Casey.  He'll be heading off to college once summer is over, and I'm always busy over at Nick.  I'm just trying to get the most of him while I can.  I had sex with him last night for the first time.  We didn't have any protection, but we did it in a jacuzzi and it was my first time, and thats like 2 of the million ways you can prevent a pregnancy.  So we should be fine.

It was a magical night, we went and saw The Simpson's movie, and after we went to TGI Fridays and he paid for the whole thing!  Even with me around!  After that we went back to my house and somewhere in there we ended up in the jacuzzi.  Where he just stuck it in.

It was so magical.

(She drew hearts on the page, big blooming ones, and were drawn with such dedication that she had even picked out a separate pink pen for them.)

I think I love him. . .

Other ancient secrets, written in the clear and concise penmanship of a young teenage girl, told of Mother's silent depression (from raising nothing but hopeless, scum filled children,) of Sissy Britney's public image problem and the sisterly issues amongst herself and Britney, but never could she go a day without talking about the dream boat who totally knocked her up:

November 2nd, 2007

Dear Diary,

The father of that little bundle of joy growing inside of me, Casey, got a wonderful job in the city as a pipe layer.  He decided not to continue college at the start of the year, and got that job instead.  He says it pays well and I'm excited for both of our futures.

They seem really bright.  (lawl, yes Jamie, reaaaal bright, but I've got the pages of history before me, I can already see your future.  Should I tell you?  Shhhh, you'll have to wait.)

Even though that whole jacuzzi/first time thing didn't really work out.  I'm glad it didn't.  I want to be a mom.

On the other hand the paparazzi caught wind of the child.  I don't know how they found out or who told them.  They are really making quite a fuss about it.  Gosh, you'd think they'd never seen a pregnant 16 year old before!  I use to see em all the time at my school, when I use to go.  Brit says I'm lucky that Mom never forced me into a music career like Mom did with her, cause Brit always wanted a baby at 16 too, Mom just wouldn't let her.  Watched her 24/7.  I'm beginning to think she's right, you know what they say "nothing like a baby to bring a family together."  (Obviously she's never seen an episode of Maury, and besides, I would think that saying applies only to ADULTS.)

Casey is going to make a good daddy.

I love him.

Each and every disgusting entry ending with that tagline, "I love him." Until things went sour. . .

Many other entries chronicle her daily life, as somehow she managed to write in it daily, busy as she was.  More on Mother's depression, on Brits troubles with sanity, but none of these without mention of the Great Casey Aldridge, a proverbial knight in shining armor, and every entry ending with that same old and tired tagline.  Poor girl was just setting herself up for heartache. . . But maybe?  Her entries followed her life all the way up to the birth of her child, Maddie Brianna Aldridge, born on June 19, 2008  Babies havin' babies.

Like stepping stones, another stone to add to the stack:

A screaming bundle of joy the media and paparazzi absolutely had a fucking field day with.  OK! Magazine being the utter piece of shit that it is, paid one million dollars for the very first photos of baby Maddie. (Perhaps they should have named the baby Ka-Ching.)

Look a pregnant, stripper!

So life would be for the sinfully young couple.  Tangles with paparazzi and the media, as if raising a child while being a child wasn't hard enough. Jamie kept up with her diary entries, though she shed the old Hello Kitty one for a much more mature notebook, one befitting of a mother, and most of her daily ramblings consisted of constant updates on the baby, written with all the love a mother has for her child. . . Yet somewhere, things get hairy, and the usual uplifting feeling of being a mother succumbs to a much greater darkness, a hidden worry concealed somewhere deep down, where not even the media can touch it:

November 4th, 2009

Dear Diary,

Maddie said her first words today!  Dah-da!  I'm excited and thrilled, as is Casey.  Its such a joy to have her in our everyday lives, and I'm grateful to have my entire family behind me, helping take care of little Maddie.

I've been trying to get back with Nickelodeon, but they don't seem to be returning my calls, nor those of my agent.

I'm getting worried.  Casey is hardly around anymore, and it seems that he's not grown up enough to have a child. (No Kidding.)  I just don't know what to do anymore, but I'm sticking with my faith and my family.  He's always out there laying pipe.  Always laying pipe.  ALWAYS.  He never seems to have any time for me anymore.  I don't know what to do.

And I feel fat.  And I feel ugly.  

Despite the feelings of self-loathing most new moms feel, looking at themselves in the mirror and seeing where supple flesh gave way to extra weight and stretch marks, Jamie hinted on a calamity that at the time, she had no idea was slowly growing.  As it turns out, Casey, after donating his genes to the creation of new life, found that he was certainly big and manly enough to rape, fuck, make love to a sixteen year old, but his nuts weren't hairy enough to face the consequences and raise a child.  And so is the calamity that is being 19 and fucking retarded.

Naturally the relationship would slowly deteriorate, and talks of an engagement were muddled by exclamations that "We're both too young," (a little late for that kind of talk, don't you think?) and before long the two weren't even being official seen together.  Nine months after their baby, the two would call it quits, and Jamie would leave Casey for ever:

February 8th, 2009

Dear Diary,

I've had enough of Casey.  I'm absolutely tired of him.  I hate to think that I ever thought that he was 'the one.'  He hasn't taken any steps to become a mature adult about this, and he's older than me!  He still just wants to lay pipe and doesn't want to commit.

(Ask any man that age to do the same, and he'll look at you ask if you're asking him to put a gun to his head.)

I'm glad my family has supported me through all of this, and besides I don't really need Casey any way.  I've found myself a mature man, a man who's got a real job, and REAL goals.  And he cares about me and he treats me good, and doesn't care one bit that I already have a kid.

He's twenty-eight and he owns a big entertainment company in Kentwood, Los Angeles.  He's a real nice guy. . .

And as for Casey

I hate him.

The bliss shattered, that sickeningly sappy tagline traded in for one of hate.

With her relationship with Casey over, Jamie set her sights on a different kind of guy, a much more mature sort of gentlemen, so she started hooking up with a twenty eight year old guy named James Watson. . . He owns a company that installs multimedia (they install t.v's for corporations.)  Way to go Jamie, dumped you a plumber and hooked up with a high end T.V. guy.  Way to go. 

And so, the pages of history are always being written, one gummy page at a time. . . What comes next for little Jamie, and what of her daughter Maddie?  Will James finally realize the error of his ways and dump a bitch?  Will Maddie grow up to sell her body for hard drugs?  One can only wait and see, on our next episode of As The Retarded World Turns. . .

Jamie Lynn Spears suffers from a calamity that fortunately, the majority of the populous does not need to suffer under: she's been born a Spears. Somehow that name has come to mean some sort of a curse, as anyone bearing the last name 'Spears,' whether related to Britney and her clan or not, are considered poor mates in regards to genes, and are therefore are avoided at all costs. . . Even remote tribes in the thickest of jungles hear tales of the 'Spears Tribe,' and although by the time it reaches their ears Britney is a giant bald headed lizard monster, and her sister Jaime, a Tiny Yet Ferocious Baby Eater (by way of gossip of course, and the inaccuracies man is victim to whenever he speaks;) and know to keep as far away from them as possible.

It is a curse forged with a name, and made stronger by the calamities of each heir, generation after generation.

For surely Britney had a bright future, as a Mouseketter, until she got into her teens.  A time when it seems, all Spears women's brains go haywire, as if some important module burns out, that ever important regulator that keeps all the chemicals on an even keel, and after all that follows is utter retardation. . . For how else could one explain Britney's early work - a teenager selling sex to old men, and her later work, a retarded selling sex to retards. . .  How else could one explain the insanity, the head shaving, the husband, the kids, the poor parenting, the, the everything?

And surely Jamie had a bright future too, or at least not yet tainted by any wrong doings of her own.  A respectable career in kids television, and then teenager television (such strata exists these days,) and then what next? Maybe movies, maybe singing?  Who the fuck knows?  Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

No one knows because that old and rotten Spears retardation had to creep up into the picture, and little Jamie had to spread her legs and gets herself pregnant, at sixteen.  That same old rotten retardation that started way back, even before world war two, even before Mr. Hitler and Mr. Bridges.  Traced all the way back to a single drop of blood, to a single blood line of regal, yes regal blood.  Back through history, through inbreeding and war, all the way back to a family of English and Maltese blood.  For yes, Lynne Spears, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn, had a paternal great grandfather who apparently was a big deal in England and had such blood running through his veins.

As such it all traces back to regal blood.  The blood of yes, royal retards.

It is tragic to think that such a calamity can strike an entire bloodline, and furthermore that said bloodline can somehow find away to survive over the centuries, but it seems the only good thing the Spears clan is good at, is getting pregnant.  

Was it all really a mistake?  Perhaps.  People make mistakes, but to give this explanation would be to allow the poor girl to make yet another mistake, to have yet another child, and perhaps yet another one. . . For as retarded as they are, they still are competitive, and I've got a slight itch that says lil ole Jamie Lynn Spears is gonna out do big sis after all.  A massive train wreck years in the making.

And it is for these reasons, in particular her diluted  royal blood that iR declares Jamie Lynn Spears, regally retarded.

*Due to the gonzo nature of iR, it is necessary that we straighten out the facts. . . I guess.  Anyway, other lulz can be found here.

Jamie was born April 4th, 1991.  That makes her, uh... 19.

She was on Nickelodeons All That when the show totally sucked balls, and was the main character in Zoey 101.

When she was impregnated she was only 16, at the time, whereas Casey was anywhere from 18 to 19, which stirred a lot of debate, and made many people particular of the details. . . If they had performed the deed in Casey's native state of Louisana, and he was 18 at the time, then its all good. . . However if he was 19 at the time, its considered a felony, and for such a deed he could face up to 10 years in prison.  LAWL  

People gave up however when they found most people just plain don't give a shit.

When she was pregnant, paparazzi did go crazy.  Lots of haters said it was like promoting teenage prenancy, but they just hatin' - they wish they could get laid at 16 and get preggers.

9 months after the baby came, Casey and Jamie really did break up.  Surprise surprise.

Later, she really did hook up with a 28 year old.  Ha - take that Casey, I'm with a dude ten years my senior, what you got sukka?  The Spears family had only this to say about it "He seems like a nice guy.

You can read Jamie Lynn Spears blog, if you want, but for some reason there's no mention of banging old dudes and raising a baby. :(

And what of this?

I've seen porno's that start out like this.

love,

iR

The Deaths of Young Girls; The Birth of Justin Bieber

The collective nothingness that is Canada breathes in; cold air. Breathes out; warm, white like cotton candy. . . A lone Canadian in jack boots stands in a foot of muck rigid as a flag pole, saluting his great nation's flag with a pride that can only come from a true hockey-loving Canadian with maple syrup running through his veins. . . A dying bar serves frothy beers to ugly men with ugly teeth, who bitterly drink their hops with a sort of disdain resulting from being known as America's little brother. . .  Off in the distance, under the shade of a few wilting pines, as conspicuous as a band-aid on a dinner plate, two polar bears fuck. . .

Its another boring day in Canada. . . but wait.

Listen:

The dullness of the day is cut through by the screams of an eighteen year old girl.  She lays in a hospital bed, her hands clenched against her supports, her voice spouting out terrible groans and noises that only women in labor and dying cows make.  The woman is Ms. Pattie Mallette, a devout Christian who had dreams of becoming an actress, dreams which were shattered after she, like a good Christian, got knocked up by some random dude at the ripe old age of eighteen. Despite the unexpected circumstances of a child, Pattie followed her faith, and prayed to God every night.  By her third trimester her prayers became more and more specific, and by the time that little Justin Bieber was born, on March 1st, 1994, she had asked God to "use her son as a modern Prophet Samuel, a voice of a generation."  (source)

Pattie would need her faith, for surely raising a child can be rather difficult for a single parent, especially one that is only eighteen.  She worked odd jobs and she and her son some how got by, and Justin was raised to be normal enough.  For Pattie her faith wouldn't be tested again until a Jewish man with a head for making money and an ear tuned for the songs of tiny birds, came to cage her son and put him in the music business after hearing one of Justin's youtube videos.  Despite being a kid who played sports, Justin also posted youtube video's of him singing Usher songs and dancing, and until Scooter Braun saw them, Justin was performing purely for an audience of tweens around the country whos chemical driven crushes they easily confused as true love.

That day with Scooter Braun, was one which Pattie both celebrated and loathed.  She was happy that her son had been discovered, she was happy that perhaps this could be his chance to become a prophet. . . That perhaps God was indeed doing his work, through her son, Justin Bieber. . . But she was troubled by the fact that this man, Scooter Braun was a Jew.

"God," she prayed.  "you don't want this Jewish kid to be Justin's man, do you?"

She was further perplexed by the fact that he was from an Atlanta based rap label. . .

"God, I gave him to you.  You could send me a Christian man, a Christian label."

But then Scooter Braun threw some money in her face.

And just like that Justin and mommy packed their shit and moved to Atlanta.

And just like that Justin starting doing some demos.

And just like that Justin had a date with his idol, Usher.

The two of them went to a carnival, and ate cotton candy, and Usher even won Justin a giant stuffed lizard when he knocked down all the milk bottles at a carnival game with one throw.  (Justin still has that giant stuffed lizard. . . )  They had a great date, and even sealed it with a kiss at the top of the ferris wheel.

So in love.

So with a boyfriend in Usher, and a daddy in Scooter Braun, Justin Bieber really only needed one more thing to become the next closet fag adored by tons of pussy (albeit young, retarded pussy):  a swagger coach. Luckily his boyfriend has been in the business for awhile, and already had the perfect guy in mind: the same man that shaped and modeled him as a teen pop star: Mr. Ryan Good.  Ryan is responsible for Justin's mannerism on and off stage, right down to every annoying hair flip.  Collectively, it is the duty of all three of them to take care of Justin Bieber, even if this means occasionally 'tag-teaming' him in the hotel room.

Aside from these three men, Justin also has a personal tutor, and a whole team of adults who monitor his every action and make sure he maintains his marketable image.  With these adults on his side, Justin released his debut album, My World in 2009, and it immediately was sucked up and adored by preteens and their crazy egocentric mothers.  The album sold 137,000 copies alone in the first day, and peaked at number five on the Top Ten Billboard List.

At this time the balloon was just begging to swell, or perhaps it was already swollen.

Justin was big on Radio Disney I suppose, he was big somewhere, amongst some people.

Swelling. . .

The success of Justin's My World can be proven easily by the number of deaths his performances generate.  There of course were those three young girls who were hospitalized during a Bieber performace at The Battlecreek Mall; that mother who broke her spine chasing Bieber for an autograph (she fell and was trampled by the following stampede of other autograph hungry fans;) and of course those foolsih girls who asked Bieber for a hug, and when he didn't comply, promptly killed themselves, being unable to live in a world where Justin Bieber didn't want them. . . And on the outside of these concerts, right there at the fringe, are fathers (the only ride the girl could get) standing amongst one another, sipping beers secretively, as to not be conspicous, and they're all grumbling...

"I just don't like it."  One spits.  He shakes his head.  "I just don't like it."

All of them staring out at the sea of girls, watching like surfers watch a dangerous tide, all of them conscious of that fact that those waters just may suck them under, just take their lives if they aren't careful. . .

"Yep. . ."  A contemptuous snort.  "I just don't like it."

Swelling. . . like the tide.

The mere presence of the boy is a powerful thing; sight of him turns young girls into ravenous beasts far too overcome by a sudden surge of inexplicable feelings to do anything other than belt out ear splitting screams and intense sobbing. . . But why do kids feel so strongly about Bieber?

Well, he is said to be made by his YouTube fan base, or so they will cross themselves up and down and swear to.  This has resulted in many Justin Bieber wars, by the twelve year girls who love him, and the twelve year old boys who hate him, because they AREN'T HIM.  Case in point, this little doucher:

So his video is out, and he's walking around the elementary yard, and he's noticing something. . . All these girls ignoring him. . . It becomes clear, hating on Justin Bieber doesn't get you pussy, at least in the fourth grade it doesn't. . . So what happens months later, as soon as he's saved up enough money?  He gets himself a Justin Bieber haircut and his name in The New York Times in a puff piece about a sudden trend amongst young teens, that trend being: Justin Bieber haircuts. . . A tasteful interview he did over the phone in the kitchen to a woman all the way over in New York. . . (Would have loved to hear that retarded interview by the way. . .)  He's totally changed his opinion about the guy, and can't stop fucking with his hair.  Now he's totally Pro-Justin Bieber.

Way to go asshole.   I hope that one kiss you finally got from a girl is worth looking like a total douche bag with a haircut that is basically a bowl cut.  If anything, its only made you more annoying, as if the obnoxious red hair and the abundance of energy wasn't enough, now you've made yourself to always be forced to carry around a comb.  Way to go.  But I'm ahead of myself.  I keep forgetting he's just a kid, a retarded little kid. . .

Hypocrisy is just a big word when you're only 12, like onomatopoeia, a word you don't even know the meaning of, but sure sounds fancy and sophisticated.

And so the wind is blown out of iR's sails:  "You wouldn't make fun of a bunch of children, now would you?  Surely you had an irrational crush all of your own, right?"

Nope.  I was never a child.

If you think about it, being Justin Bieber totally sucks balls.  You've got a mother who's a total Jesus freak and has delusions that perhaps you are just the thing that this world is looking for (and not another product.)  Your father is an adopted one, and the only real resemblance of a dad, in that he's always there to scold you and remind you that there is business to be done.  But he's not your real dad... Your real dad you only talk to on occasion over an impersonal phone.

You're deeply in love with a black man, but you can't love him openly, because doing so would ruin your image, and you'd no longer be a useful object to use to sell sex to little girls.  You've got a whole image team that follows you around to make sure that you don't slip up, because slipping up would be the worst thing you could ever do.  Failure, is not an option.

And when you fuck up, you get scolded every damn time.

Its not life for a boy.

No life for a boy in love with a grown black man.

Its like caging a bird.

And on top of that you have to pretend you like all these girls who rave over your laboriously. . . Throngs of retarded fans that steal your shit and try desperately to hug you.  Stupid bitches like this:

Look ma, we're dumb!

Emah Hira Maito, aged seventeen and her friend (nameless,) who ran up on Bieber and stole his favorite hat, and yes although it is quite retarded to have a favorite hat, this young little lass though it would be a good idea to hold it for RANSOM, yes RANSOM, yet she was not looking for money. . . She was looking for a hug.  Needless to say the COPS had a thing or two to say about it, and the BITCH never got her HUG.

And if this wasn't a good enough representation of that craze that runs through these young girls minds, when they returned that hat, the two of them included their phone numbers and their twitter accounts with the vague and utter retarded notion that, MAYBE, just MAYBE Justin will forget about all the crazy stalker antics and chose them, just pluck them up like daisies amongst the millions of throngs of young girls who all hope for him to do the same to them. . . just pluck them up like daisies.

Emah is still waiting by the phone. . .

Patiently. . . waiting. . .

So where does this place Justin Bieber on the iR scale of retardation?  Well considering the fact that he's already gone through puberty, and his voice has indeed changed, making some of those higher notes impossible to reach, and the fact that pop music flows regardless of a person's hardwork, that Justin Bieber is deserving of an all new definition of retardation.  Further compounded by the fact that he is litterally one major slip up from completely polarizing every young girl's feelings about him, fickle as they are, Infinitely Retarded declares Justin Bieber, finitely retarded.


finite retardation - n - retardation in an individual that is not constant and eventually ends.  Although this retardation may span a longer period of time, it does indeed have a starting point and an ending point, quite unlike Infinite retardation, which is perpetual.  Victims of this retardation are said to be "finitely retarded."

And Justin's case, he'll find himself a bottle, grow old, and wither and die in one.

Just like the worm.

*Due to the gonzo nature of iR, all facts surely must be straightened out.  Here are really the facts, really...


Justin Bieber is Canadian.

His mom is a Jesus freak, did pray to God to make him a Prophet Samuel, and was distraught when a Jewish man came to try and represent her son.

Usher finds Justin Bieber to be like a son.  They are not actually lovers... (At least not publicly.)

Justin twitters a lot, and its all retarded dribble.

Justin has been nominated for many awards, but all he's ever won is a moonman from TRL Italy...

He's only had one album reach number one, and that was only in Canada alone.

Bieber's got a team of what looks like over 50 people, who handle everything from writing his songs to managing the money to yada yada and etc etc.

Bieber's concerts and appearances do get out of hand, many goers report minor injuries with all the scuffling and hub-bub going about, no deaths reported however, :( sad face.

Bieber is not gay, although if you ask 12 year old boys they will all say that he is, and that he sings like a girl "And that is why I hate him."

Bieber really is a youtube sensation, was before Scooter ever scooped him up.  There really are pointless and mind numbing war videos between Justin's lovers and Justin's haters. . . Just look it up if you believe me not, but I warn you, though there are bits of hilarity, much of is retardation.

Bieber wears ball caps all the time. . . I don't like this style, cocked to one side, this I like not.  And this, yes is irrelevant.

Did I mention he's Canadian?

love,
iR